


The Journal - Season 1

by McKinney_Wylis



Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Diary/Journal, Explicit Language, Friendship, Frustration, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-18 16:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10620807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKinney_Wylis/pseuds/McKinney_Wylis
Summary: Sometimes an XO's just got to vent. And seeing as venting out loud would suck for morale and probably get him keelhauled, Mike Slattery prevents an ulcer by venting to a personal log that ISN'T on the record.--Just a little stream-of-consciousness fun. I recently discovered the show and have been bingeing and re-bingeing Seasons 1 and 2 since Hulu doesn't yet have Season 3 and TNT runs weird on my computer. You just know Slattery's got a case of antacid stowed under his bunk... :) Planning on one entry per episode.





	1. Phase Six

 

**_Personal Log, Commander Michael Slattery, X.O. USS Nathan James DGG 151_ **

**_Mission Day_** _**126**_

_We’re still at sea. Alone. With a global fucking pandemic eating the world alive. Goddamn nukes going off in France. No orders, no government. Back in the world three days and we’ve already lost Benz to the virus. God, he was a great kid. Some kinda heart, that boy._

_Not a clue what’s out here. Not a clue if we’ll find what we need._

_No way of knowing what the hell is going on at home, if our families are dead or dying or hiding out and scrounging for scraps. Thank God we moved to Norfolk when I was assigned to the James. I can’t even imagine what Chicago would be like in this mess. It was barely civilized before this plague. Chrissy said they were in a safe zone, but what the hell does that even mean?_

_Four months. EMCON for four months, and we find out what that goddamn researcher has been hiding from us. And now she’s gonna make the vaccine here. Instead of in a lab we could have secured for her. I’d bet my boys against any civilian rabble-rousers any day of the week._

_But no._

_“Too many variables.” Hell, there’ve been too many fucking variables this whole goddamn trip._

_So here we sit in the middle of the fucking Caribbean, stretching our food and our fuel to the goddamn limit on the hope there’s supplies at Gitmo._

_216 lives riding on goddamn hope._

_He’s nuts. Stone fucking drank-the-Kool-Aid nuts. We’ll be lucky to get home alive. And God only knows what we'll find when we finally get there._

_But then Tommy’s always been nuts. Fucking maverick from the first moment we met. Days I want to shoot him. Or at least lay him out on the deck with a well-placed punch._ _Probably would have done it by now if he wasn’t usually right in the end._

_So we hope. Shit._

_I gotta have Doc Rios get me another bottle of Rolaids. Or I’m gonna end up with an ulcer._

_##_

 

Mike Slattery moved the paper clip to a blank page, closed the leather-covered notebook, capped the pen, and slid the whole thing back under the corner of his mattress. He kept an official log, like they all did, but sometimes a man needed to spill his guts in private before he ended up spitting them all over the wrong place at the wrong time. Writing them down in his “shitstorm journal” let him vent and then leave it behind. And the current bout of lunacy definitely required a rant.

He’d given the captain every single reason he could think of why this course was nothing short of insane. Every single logical option. That was his job. Didn’t matter they’d been friends for nearly fifteen years now; a good XO played devil’s advocate for his captain, and took whatever the captain shot back. Still, the glare and the terse “I expect you to fall in line” stung.

And the fact of the matter was, every  moment they sat out here was another chance the next death was a husband, a wife, a parent, a child...

_God, Lucas…_

He sucked in a breath and set his spine against the suddenness of that particular gut-punch. There wasn’t time to grieve. Not even in the journal. Might not be for a while. Nor time to dwell on the fact Christine was pretty much done with him for good. No time. So he’d come down to his quarters to yell at the journal about Tommy’s latest case of insanity for a few minutes and then move forward.

The entry he’d just written would never be seen again. He did that on purpose, never looked back. It wasn’t for posterity. It was simply his way of venting so he could go back to focusing on the mission and his job. The night before they made home port, he’d take the notebook from its leather cover, walk out to the deck of the ship without opening it, and dump it in the ocean to disintegrate. Then he’d put a new, blank notebook in and start again.

Though the rate things were going, he might just fill this one up before they got home.


	2. Welcome to Gitmo

**_Personal Log, Commander Michael Slattery, X.O. USS Nathan James DGG 151_ **

 

 ** _Mission Day_** _**129**_

 

_ I’m worried about Tom. He’s taking this whole thing...weird. Not so much having Green run fire drills or Burk do TAC drills -- that’s SOP. It’s just...well, I don’t know what it is exactly. But it’s eating him up. I can see it. Overheard him talking to the Master Chief: “Every day we don’t come home with a vaccine is another day a half million people die.” Can’t say he’s wrong. But that’s a bitch of a weight to take on. We’re just one ship. How the hell are two hundred of us going to save the world? _

_ Especially when we’re doing shit like running every single engine at flank on fuel looks like somebody poured molasses into it. Algae, dirt, probably rust. It’s a mess. We’ll be lucky to make it to Gitmo without losing a generator. Or two. _

_ Listening to Dr. Scott rattle off symptoms like she’s in a goddamn lecture hall didn’t help. All I could see was Lucas. Coughing. Bleeding. Dying. And then her saying she's going off of 3-week-old intel to send us into a hot zone. Yeah, I was going to ask a few questions. _

_ Tom wasn’t happy about it. Actually boiled it down to “Are you with me?” WTF? Of course I’m with him. This isn’t the first harebrained tack he’s ever taken, but it might be the furthest off the reservation. I get it. I do. We’re on our own. There’s no one to call for orders. We’re going to have to MacGyverize every step of the way.  _

_ Doesn’t mean I can just forgive and forget being kept in the dark for four months. I’m going to ask the questions he won’t because they need to be asked. Not to undermine her. Just to keep her honest. It’s going to take me a while to trust Dr. Scott.  _

_ But I do trust Tom. And even knowing it’s mostly the pressure of the situation, it still stings he had to ask. _

 

***

 

 

_ Should have known it wasn’t going to go off smooth. _ In four hours at Gitmo they’d managed to get into a three-pronged firefight with a bunch of Al-Qaeda who’d turned on their guards after the guys showed them a little human decency, resulting in casualties on all three field teams. But they got the hospital equipment for the scientists, and a good six weeks worth of food supplies for the ship. Plus most of their fuel replenished. A sizeable dose of detergent additive and algicide would take care of the last of the muck from the cruise ship. So maybe not smooth, but well enough.

They’d also picked up a new crew member. Tex Nolan, formerly Gitmo guard. Mike hadn’t had much chance yet to speak to the man, but from all reports a tough son of a bitch who knew his way around a rifle and a knife with equal proficiency. He was getting patched up down in Medical as well.

He’d half-expected the captain to dress him down again for letting Dr. Scott go after Cruz, but Tom just nodded briefly and said they’d all done good today. At this point, Mike would take it.  

_ Maybe this will work out after all. _

And then the Russians showed up.


	3. Dead Reckoning

 

_**Mission Day 130** _

_1100-- “I need to look him in the eyes.”_

_Damn it all, Tom, this ain’t the Wild West. Honestly, some days I really wonder what the hell century he was born in._

_We’ve got an old Kirov-class Russian ship sitting 20 miles off our SSE, nuclear-powered and warheads to boot, with some old admiral looking to be the next Czarina of the world or something. And how the hell does he know about Dr. Scott and the primordial, anyway? They were looking for the cure when we ran into them in the Arctic. And I’d have bet my last cigar they were the ones who dropped that H-bomb on France._

_I’d have won, too. Ruskov fucking gloated over that one._

_And Tommy’s going to go stare him down like Wyatt Earp while we sit here on our asses instead of getting a little maneuvering room out of this bay._

_God, I hate sitting. Especially when I just know they’re pulling something behind our backs while the admiral makes nice-nice._

_Damn it, Tom..._

 

_***_

 

“XO.” The Master Chief’s tone brought him across the CIC deck in a hurry. “Take a look.”

Mike brought the field glasses to his eyes. _Shit. I knew it, I knew it, goddamn you, Tommy…_ “They’re mining the bay.” There was only so much he could do with his CO off the ship playing footsie with the enemy, but he made sure it was all done.  A growl got away from him, prompting a grim nod from Jeter. “Mines. I hate friggin’ mines.”

 

_***_

_1300--_ _Tom getting back didn’t improve things. Ruskov wasn’t happy with a sample of the primordial strain. He wanted nothing less than Dr. Scott and all her research and the primordial strain. SOB nutjob fancies himself a new emperor of the world._

_“You were right.” Not to gloat, but it feels like maybe we’re getting back on solid footing. That’s not nothing. Not to me at least._

 

_2200 --_ _We’re improvising again. Gotta admit, we’re pretty damn good at it. Tom ordered me to get some sleep while Gator and Green and their bunch are cooking up an exfil for us. Goddamn Russkies are sitting out there partying..._

 

_***_

 

_Mission Day 131_

_0600-- Damn that son of a bitch Ruskov! Patrol boat shot two of our boys, Smith and Bercham, while they were scouting the channel. No warning, no nothing, just shot them down. Tom came plowing into CIC mad as hell and planted a 5-inch right off that RHIB’s nose. God, it felt good. And now he backed Ruskov right to the horizon. So we bought ourselves 24 hours, but that Russian bastard will still have us on his radar._

_S &R retrieved the bodies of our boys. Damn it, that’s three now. Berchem’s been with us since the day he joined up four years ago. Good kid. Brains, balls, and badass. Smith was only 19. God, these kids get younger every year. _

 

_2100-- Well, this day just keeps getting better and better. Not, my oldest girl would say. Dr. Quincy Tophet’s a goddamn traitor. Tried to abscond with Dr. Scott and a box of virus samples, ended up in a standoff in the Mess with about 40 crew and came this close to dropping the virus right in the middle of us. They’ve got him in the gym right now, and Tom wants me to employ a little of my former training as a CPD detective and get some answers out of him._

_I’m gonna enjoy this._

 

_2300--Okay, so Ruskov had him over a barrel. Doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. We’ll deal with him later. Right now we’ve got a plan. A damn good one, if we can pull it off without giving Gator a heart attack. And we will. Foster and Green running decoy while we do a little late-night dredging. God, what a crew we’ve got._

_Though I am concerned about Green. Something’s eating at that boy. Of course, he has lost three men in the last week._

_We are now down a torpedo. 5 of the 6 left. Sure hope the lights are on in Norfolk..._

_Note for future sailors: Never underestimate the value of aluminum foil._

 

_2345--Too damn close. Not sure Gator's and Granderson's nerves will ever be the same again. But it’s done. We’re still flying. Bravo Zulu. Tonight I’ll sleep._

_***_


	4. We’ll Get There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 99% of the story is taken directly from the happenings on board Nathan James in the respective episode. I wanted to create a little more backstory for Mike, though, which is why I have him serving previously on the USS Ignatius (probably with Chandler before he got the James as his first command), and remembering the humanitarian trip to Haiti.
> 
> Glossary terms:
> 
> CIC: Combat Information Center (the bridge)  
> EMCON: Emissions Control (essentially radio silence)  
> SSIS: Seawater Service Intake System - cools the engine oil so the engines do not overheat.  
> Sitrep: Situation Report

* * *

 

**_Personal Log, Commander Michael Slattery, X.O. USS Nathan James DGG 151_ **

**_Mission Day_** **140**

_**0900--** I found Tom alone in the Comms room this morning, listening to the transmissions we’re picking up. Apparently his dad has a ham radio up at the cabin and he was hoping Darien might reach out, as it’s their anniversary today. _

_He’s trying his damnedest to keep me hoping, too. But after the last conversation I had with Chrissy when we lifted EMCON, I don’t hold much out. Not whether she and the girls are still out there--last I heard, they were, and they were safe--but that I’ll ever hear from her again. Best for me to just leave it by the wayside and focus on the job._

_Crew morale seems to be okay for the moment, though it appears the last basketball went for a swim. Maybe we’ll find a WalMart on our way past Kingston._

_Granderson says there hasn’t been a peep of anything that might be out of Haiti. That poor hellhole never recovered from the earthquake in 2010. We ran a couple of support details for aid ships while I was on the Ignatius, which was why I’d asked Granderson in the first place. Good, good people, but they had absolutely nothing. Cholera would kill thousands. They’d have never stood a chance against this._

_Dr. Tophet’s under house arrest, though I’ll admit to entertaining the thought--just for a minute--of tossing him over the side and letting the Russians have him if the sharks aren’t hungry. But apparently Dr. Scott needs him for something, because she’s giving Tom an earful out on deck right now. I only caught a snatch of it on my way to the CIC. A more pushy, demanding, downright obstinate woman I have never met. Good thing that’s Tom’s department._

 

_**1300--** Our little escape from Gitmo left some unexpected scars. Filters got knocked loose of the SSIS, resulting in algal bloom and then Gennies 1  & 2 overheating. Fire in Main Eng 2. Nobody hurt, but we’ve got a hell of a mess. Gen 3 is all we have now for the lab, and it’s gotta stay cool. And the Reverse Osmosis system is down as well. So we’re on water conservation until Lt. Chung can get us a sitrep on it. Then we’ll know where to go from there. I knew we were running low on spare parts, but for something this big to hit now, when we’re out in the middle of nowhere...we’re going to be taking it very easy in this heat. Tropical humidity is worse than desert for leaching the water right out of you. _

_But right now I get to go polish my “scary cop/good cop” routine on Dr. Tophet. Get him to go work with Dr. Scott so she can get the analysis she needs. Looking to be the bright spot of my day._

_**1800--** It’s worse than we thought. Not only will it take us a week to 10 days at all-stop to repair the damage to the engines, but the circuit breakers in the RO are fried. We didn’t filter water at Gitmo because of potential contamination from the virus, and we had to leave in kind of a hurry so we never had a chance to test it. We have 3000 gallons of fresh water for 214 people. And it’ll take us six days to limp to this tiny little atoll-- six days IF the winds and currents cooperate. We’ve got some solar stills, but they’re designed for individuals - and none too generous at that. Even at our most severe rations that’s still two days, in this heat, we’ll be with no water. _

_I’m not generally a praying man, but we could sure use a miracle about now._

 

_**2300--** Thinking maybe I’ll just sleep in my CIC chair. If I sleep at all. Since it’s sweltering anywhere not attached directly outside and not that much cooler outside anyway. Tom’s sitting out in the lookout chair watching the stars. We’ve got one engine. One hour to run, then five at all-stop so it can cool down. UAV has found nothing closer than Serrana Bank. Never thought I’d be remembering the Arctic with nostalgia. _

* * *

 

**_ Mission Day 141 _ **

_**0300--** And it just keeps getting better and better. We lost the last of the circuit breakers on Generator 3. Dr. Scott went a bit ballistic. Understandable, but I’m a lot more concerned about our crew right now than that goddamn virus. _

_Lt Chung came up with a solution to keeping her samples cool, but we’ve got to be at all-stop to do it so the case doesn’t drag along the sea floor. Still, it was an ingenious bit of jerry-rigging, I’ll give him that. Garrett said she had a good feeling about him when he came aboard. He’s proving her right._

_I did mention Tom’s crazy, right? He’s staking the lives of our crew against those samples sitting at the sea bed. And I hate having to tell him that when he already knows it all too well._

_We are at the mercy of the winds. God help us._

 

_**0800--** No breeze. Not a fucking breath right now. Master Chief’s running on faith and holding a prayer vigil. Tom’s running on hope and desperation about now. And me...well, as Tom’s about the only thing I’ve got left right now, I’ll hitch my wagon to his for as long as we’re both still breathing. And hold my tongue to give him hell for this till we’re sitting in whatever lies beyond. _

 

_**0854--** Maybe hope ain’t such a bad thing after all. We have the winds. _

 

* * *

 

**_ Mission Day 148 _ **

_**1300--** I really don’t want the last words I hear from Tom be “I’m sorry. I thought we’d make up more time.” And not have spit enough left to tell him it’s all right. Most of the crew is down. Right now there isn’t enough moisture in my skin to sweat, and at this point I’d take drinking even that. _

_I shouldn’t have this particular log up in CIC. But I feel I ought to say something, even if nobody will ever see it. Nathan James is the finest ship I’ve had the privilege to serve on. Her crew the finest men and women I have ever known. And her captain the best friend I’ve ever had._

_It really is all right, Tom._

 

_**1327--** Whatever ocean gods there might be, they are smiling on us today. We made Serrana Bank. We found water. _

_“See? Piece of cake.”_

_Tom…_

_He is without doubt the single craziest MF I have ever known. But I would not trade that association for all that water pouring down those rocks out there. Bravo Zulu._

 

_**2130--** CIC quiet. I have the watch. Crew enjoying a well-deserved R  & R on shore. Mr. Chung has restored aux power so we will have electricity to the lab while they make repairs. We’ll hold here a couple of weeks and get Nathan James back on her feet. And then we’ll move forward. _


	5. El Toro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Apologies it's taken me so long to get this one finished. "El Toro" really digs deep into Mike's gut, and sends him to a bit of a dark place. It's not easy for me to wade through intense emotion, and I found I needed a break. So I took a week and thoroughly binged another of Adam Baldwin's great series, "Chuck." I came back to this with fresh eyes and was able to finish it. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also: The show has yet to name Mike Slattery's two daughters, so for the moment I've named them Elizabeth and Rachel. If the show ever does name them, I'll tweak accordingly.

* * *

_Mission Day 163 - Wednesday 5 November_

 

_0630-- We’re at flank and making good time. Calm two weeks at Serrana Bank. Ship’s repaired, crew’s fresh. We took on a full supply of fresh water and the RO’s back up. I don’t think I’ve had so long a stretch of 6-hour sleeps on a ship since I joined up._

_Tom’s still making videos for his kids. Sometimes I think it’s easier, having no hope Chrissy’d want me around even if I could find her. But I miss the girls. I miss Lucas._

_Took some time to say a proper goodbye to him out over the water at sunset one night. Spent a lot of time looking through the binder of animal drawings he was always adding to for my deploys. Anything more’s just going to have to wait. Last thing the crew needs is the XO cracked wide open. I’m hoping by the time we get home it’ll be less raw._

_We’re back on mission: get to Central America and get Dr. Scott some monkeys so she can test her vaccine._

 

_1100-- Well, Costa Rica’s a mess. Lot of sickness. A civil nightmare. We’re turning further north, to Nicaragua. 30 miles up a river, dense jungle, no radar, no radio that far in. Kinda the ultimate shit creek._

_Hell, running blind’s been working for us so far. I can’t really get too worked up over it anymore._

_No point hiding I’m glad to be going on the RHIB team this time. Tom knows how much I hate sitting on the ship while he goes off cowboying. I always feel better watching his six. Less chance of him getting into trouble that way._

_Truth be told, Granderson confided to me they'd all rather have me waiting than Tom, though. He's worse at it. A lot worse, apparently._

_“I’m gonna need all my best men, and that includes you.” I didn’t even realize I’d been doubting that until he said it. Took all I had not to break down and make an ass of myself over one little comment. But God, I needed to hear it. Which is why he said it, of course. We’re good. Hot damn, we’re good._

_Garrett will be in charge in our absence. The James is secure._

_Our teams: Vulture One, Tom, myself, Mason on radio, Master Chief. Vulture Two: Green, Burk, Tex, and Dr. Scott, seeing as she needs to supervise the monkeys we catch._

_Don't know what all the fuss is--if it’s got a tail, it’s a monkey. No tail, ape. Lucas taught me that when he was 4. And I actually could pick out a spider monkey, I’m pretty sure. God knows we spent enough time at the Chicago Zoo and then the zoological park in Norfolk. Who’d have thought all those lessons would be coming in handy now. Thanks, son._

_***_

 

_Day 165 - Friday 7 November_

 

_0530--_

* * *

 

 

He stared at the page, barely seeing it, the pen drooping from his fingers. When it clattered to the surface of the desk, he picked it up and tried again.

 

* * *

_I never thought of Nicaragua as a particularly beautiful place before. Seems like all you ever heard about was the fighting and the drugs. But green...my God, the jungle is almost searingly green. Jagged mountains with these gorgeous waterfalls tumbling into the river. River’s brown, but not the same as in the States. There it’s pollution; here it was just the sediment. Once in awhile we saw fish jumping for insects. Heard toucans and parakeets screeching from the treetops. Wild parakeets, of all things. Even saw a three-toed sloth hanging from a branch, fast asleep. False coral snake, too. Lucas would have been in his element._

* * *

 

 

He paused. _This_ _isn’t what this journal’s for._

Well, technically the journal was for anything he wanted to get off his chest, and his thoughts as they moved into the jungle _had_ started with how much Lucas would have loved exploring the wildlife.

_Come on, Mike. Get it over with._

 He set the pen to the paper.

 

* * *

_Scout team heard the waterfall Dr. Scott had told us about, and went in to see if she was right about the monkeys congregating there. And ran smack into a whole group of sick people, probably ousted from their village and making do as best they could. We got into our masks before anybody got too close and hightailed it back to the RHIBs, but seeing their faces, hearing their pleas, and not being able to do a damn thing to help…_

* * *

 

 

His gut heaved again and he had to swallow. He hadn’t been able to eat anything since they’d got back. Water barely stayed down. First up close on the trip in, then again on the way out. The satisfaction of their little victory faded in the sight of those helpless, dying faces.

_Mike. Say it._

 

 

* * *

_The footage from the cruise ship hadn't done justice. I saw up close. Every step, every progression of the virus written on a face. The sores all white with—_

_The bloody noses, and ears, and eyes in some cases… The tight cough that looks so painful._

_Lucas had a case of whooping cough when he was just a baby. Probably caught it from some idiot antivaxxer when Chrissy was shopping off-base. Ended up in the ICU for two days. Never heard anything like that cough. Not till yesterday._

_Captain sent Dr. Scott back to the James along with the rest of Vulture Two. So it was just me, Mason, Green, the Master Chief, and Tom. We headed further upriver in hopes of finding the monkeys we needed. Dr. Scott gave us the best spot to check before she left._

_Passed by the wreck of a big yacht, the El Toro. Clearly whoever owned it didn’t know the river. Ran aground, bottom stove open. It had been there awhile. We didn’t stop to check it out. Way too many surprises already._

_Stopped on the north bank of the river and disembarked. God, I’d thought it was green before, but the jungle just glowed. Lot of wildlife chattering all around us. It felt like we were the only people around for miles. Pristine. Untouched._

_Should have known better._

_We came up on a clearing when Mason suddenly took some sort of a hit to the leg. Turned out to be a jerry-rigged booby trap, kinda like stepping on a garden rake and the handle hits you in the chest--only this was bamboo, triggered from the side, and the barbs were hooked and coated in some kind of toxin. Worse, we found ourselves surrounded by about 20 guys, all heavily armed. We were trapped._

* * *

 

 

The pen clattered to the desk again as the memory took hold. Relieved of not only their weapons, but the CBRs. Herded along the jungle path, a merc poking him in the shoulder every ten feet or so until he was ready to snap the little fucker’s neck. A new round of panic jolting through his chest as they came to another settlement, until he realized the people here _weren’t_ sick.

Just poor. Dear God, sleeping on the bare jungle floor with rickety-looking lean-tos the only thing between them and the elements.  Still, they didn’t look to be doing too bad…until the guys with the guns started pushing people around and commandeering the few fish some of the men had caught, scattering a card game and laughing about it. It was then Mike had realized it _was_ bad. Very bad. But as much as he’d wanted to start cracking heads, he took his cues from the Captain. And Tom stayed remarkably calm through it all.

 _Wise in hindsight. Considering._ At the time, though, it ate at his gut, which had already been churning. Something was very, very wrong in that village.

He forced himself to stop and record the story to that point. Maybe if he took it in small doses he could get through it without punching a wall.

 

* * *

_We were herded into a big fenced area, blocked off from the people we’d seen. Good God - tents, water barrels, a garden of all things. More people working, looking just as worn-down and glassy eyed as the ones by the river._

_And smack dab in the middle, a hot tub. A goddamn hot tub!_

_El Toro. All polished up, gold chain around his neck, fancy bathrobe and all, serving girl bringing him mango juice. Drug lord, set himself up as a fucking Inca king or something. While those people were living like that. Smug smile all up in Tom’s face. Mason was getting worse by the minute, and here’s this arrogant jackass running his mouth about “impotent threats.” Bastard. Holding all the cards and knowing it damn well the whole time._

_Millions of decent human beings dead, and these guys still walking around, Ruskov, those assholes at Gitmo...Guess it’s true what they say about cockroaches…_

_Eventually Toro did “generously” have their doctor take care of Mason. Local poison, local remedy. Master Chief and Green stayed with him while Tom and I got “treated” to dinner in the mansion. Even brought in the former mayor of the nearby town these folks were from, paraded him as if to rub our faces in the situation he knew we wouldn’t do anything about_

_Mayor of Bocana Caoba, Ervin Delgado, was just trying to keep his people together, alive. But they were badly outgunned, and that sonofabitch Toro was taking most of their food. All this guy could really do was watch it all play out._

_I REALLY don’t like bullies, and this asshole took bully to a whole new level._

* * *

 

He paused again. The pen started to shake in his hand and it took another couple of swallows before he could even draw a breath. Delgado’s daughter, Karina, looked so very much like his own Elizabeth. Her eyes, her hairstyle, the shape of her face—the only real difference was Karina’s skin tone, a rich bronze in contrast to Beth’s fair-and-freckles. He’d had to remember to breathe then, too.

 

* * *

_Wasn’t sure I was going to hold my temper, watching that prick pawing her. If it hadn’t been for Tom sitting across from me ordering me to sit still with nothing more than his gaze, I probably would have gotten myself shot. And when she spoke up, pleading with us to do something… I can’t really blame her father for trying to placate Toro, but God..._

_And then he sent her across the river. Loaded her onto a boat and purposely took her to those people infected with the virus. A fucking execution._

_Fuck._

* * *

 

 

He quelled the urge to write it a hundred more times, to fill up the rest of this page, and the next, and the next.  His face still throbbed from the gun butt, but that was nothing compared to the burn eating his stomach from the inside out.

He’d barely been able to see as his head spun with the pain; he could only hear Karina screaming, crying, pleading, her voice fading as the boat pulled away from the riverbank, her father shouting in reply, the bolts of rifles being pulled back and Danny Green’s “all right, all right, okay” as they’d closed in.  Being hauled up to his knees had left him nauseated and seething until they’d settled him and bound his hands behind his back. Then just the rage remained.

Tom’s expression had been unreadable as he strode down to the bank. Mike hadn’t been able to tell if the captain was pissed off or just disappointed.  Either way, he’d known they were leaving. Walking away. Abandoning those people.

Until they didn’t.

He picked up the pen again.

 

* * *

_Every yard we drove away from that village made me sicker. Like that poison they’d used on Mason burning every cell in my body. No way would I have been able to sleep, likely close my eyes ever again, without seeing those villagers, those girls, my girls’ faces overlaying them, if we hadn’t gone back. Thank you, Tom. I knew you wouldn't let me down._

_Green said it perfect: No point saving the world if we leave a world not worth saving._

_And as much as I’d have loved to shoot that son of a bitch right between the eyes, seeing those girls’ father stick a knife in him felt like the right kind of justice. Bocana Caoba will be all right now. They’ve got a good man in charge._

_I only wish there was something we could have done for the sick ones we saw on the way back. Even if Dr. Scott finds a vaccine tomorrow, it’s too late for them._

_Too late for Karina Delgado._


	6. Lockdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We know from Lt. Granderson that no one had "seen the XO all day," so it made sense to have him holed up in his cabin, thinking/brooding, stewing over it all again. And for the captain to track him down after a few hours of it. Hence the "missing scene."

**_Personal Log - Mission Day 165 - 7 November_ **

 

_Y’know, it can be downright annoying, working for a man who’s always right. And chooses to NOT remind you of it._

_Of course, wisdom like that is a gift to be around, too. Hoping maybe a little of it is rubbing off on me. And I kinda hope Tom figures it out on his own, because I don’t see myself ever telling him that’s what I think._

_Master Chief Jeter and I had suggested to Tom that the crew didn’t need to know all the details of Nicaragua. That it was too much right now for them to know what the world’s become. Master Chief said they needed hope._

_Looking back on it now, I think maybe the whole deal with those villagers—and those girls, same age as my own—juxtaposed with all the fresh faces on the ship. It wasn’t I didn’t think they could handle it—I didn’t think they should have to bear that burden. I suppose I was feeling a bit protective. Paternal, maybe. Still mad as hell, definitely. And I don’t want to talk about it. That’s likely the crux right there. Bad enough it won’t quit looping in my head every time I stop doing ship’s business._

_Tom just nodded, like he does, and set to finishing his dinner. Glad somebody can eat right now. Then an hour later he walked into the CIC, picked up the allcall, and told them the whole of it, minus only the details of what El Toro did to those girls. Everything else._

_And he was right. Need-to-know has taken a back seat to keeping our crew together. We’re all we’ve got right now, and we don’t know what’s ahead. Yes, they need hope. But they’re our hope, too. The hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out the other side of this all right._

_And maybe I’ll be able to look at a meal again without feeling nauseous._

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 _“Take some time, Mike. Doc says your ears are probably still ringing from that gun butt you took to the face. It’s quiet. We’ve got it covered for now.”_ Tom’s eyes had conveyed complete understanding. _“That’s an order, by the way.”_

Once in awhile the walls of his cabin would start to close in, usually about month three of a deploy. Then he’d go take it out on a bag or a weight bench, or just go stand at the stern for an hour or so. Watch the sea swirl and eddy, smell the wind, clear his head. Today wasn’t one of those days. Today he welcomed the mostly blank walls. The familiarity of his bunk. The framed photo of his children he held in his hands.

The dead silence wasn’t overly welcome, but he knew he needed to process everything that had happened in the last 24 hours or it was going to catch up with him at some random, likely inopportune, time in the near future.

He’d vented to his journal. Last night. Before staring at the ceiling and then the view from the CIC and then pacing the deck and sitting and pacing some more. And just now vented some more this morning about the conversation with Tom. But somehow even putting the events on paper hadn’t helped. He couldn’t adequately convey the raw fear that had spread over the back of his tongue when they’d encountered those infected people. The burst of adrenaline when Mason had got hit. The clench of his gut as he saw a mother with a tiny baby huddled under a makeshift lean-to with nothing but a filthy blanket, the clothes on her back, and hopelessness in her eyes.  Old people sleeping on the ground with no cover. Children’s glassy stares at the ground. The growing rage as he watched poor villagers tossed around and their food taken from them by the mercs who’d ambushed the team in the forest. The desire to plant his elbow right into the face of the merc who kept prodding him to move—a skinny guy he could have taken out with barely half an effort if it hadn’t been for the machine gun, the machete, and the ten equally-armed buddies.

And then that smug son of a bitch.  Living like a king amidst all that, a goddamn hot tub even. Smiling right into the captain’s face because he thought he held all the cards. And then finding Toro’s little palace. So much that could help that village, hoarded and held away from them at gunpoint. All that bullshit about _mita_ and labor exchange while Mayor Delgado had to sit there and watch his daughters being treated like sex toys.

 _God…_ Mike trailed his fingers over the edge of the picture frame, a shot from the last time he’d taken the kids camping up at Davis Lakes and given Chrissy a week to herself before he deployed. Beth and Hannah had grumbled about the lack of cell signal and no wifi for about an hour, which he’d expected and ignored as he set up tents and a fire pit. But then they’d gone fishing, and Lucas had caught a dragonfly and expounded all he knew about them, and before Mike knew it there were giggles and squeals and marshmallow in Beth’s hair.

Ghost stories. Tuning up his guitar and listening to them sing. Lucas falling asleep on his shoulder. Watching the girls curled together in their tent, half a dozen stuffed animals around them still, as if they were three and five again instead of fourteen and sixteen.

Fourteen and sixteen...both the brown hair and blue eyes of the girls in the photograph blurred and turned dark, black as crow feathers, the fair skin and freckles becoming a rich bronze.  Karina. Olivia. Eyes full of terror, pleading with him…

The images reverted and for a moment he had a vivid image of Beth’s and Hannah’s eyes bright with that same terror as some lowlife in a refugee camp advanced on them. He tore up off the bunk and clenched his fist, pressing it against the bulkhead so he didn’t swing instead and then have to spend six weeks with his hand in a cast.

“We set it right, Mike.”

He looked up into the calm eyes of his captain.

“Sorry. Figured if I knocked you might end up yelling and I didn’t figure the crew needed to hear that. Seeing as you can pretty much reach every corner of the ship with that bellow of yours.” Tom closed the door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms. The faint smile sobered. “What’s haunting you worst about it?”

“Wondering if the same thing’s going on at home.” He swung back and dropped down onto the bunk hard, rubbing his hands over his face. Not much caring if he scrubbed a tear or two away in the process. “The whole world’s gone to shit, Tom.” His breath backed up on him in what might less generously be considered a sob. “It’s gone to fucking shit.”

“Not completely. The radio transmissions we’re picking up have gotten more positive. Survivors are coming together, helping each other out. And Bocana Caoba’s going to be okay now. Well, as okay as it can be with the virus still around. But okay. We set it right. Delgado will do the rest.” Tom moved over to the desk, angling one hip onto the surface. “You were right. I don’t think I could have ever erased those people from my head if we hadn’t gone back.We can’t do that every time or we’ll never finish the mission, but yeah. You were right. And so was Danny. World’s got to be worth saving. And it is.”

“I thought I had a handle on it. Not knowing.” The picture frame had cooled since he’d tossed it down to not-quite punch the wall and now it made him shiver as he held it again. “But now…”

“Now your brain’s got a real-life scenario to work with. Not just imagining. I know. And I noticed how much Karina looks like your Elizabeth. But we will get home, Mike. We’ll find them, if they’re to be found. Or at least we’ll find the answers we need.” For a moment, a strong hand gripped Mike’s shoulder, solid and warm. “We’ll set it right. Together.”

Tom stayed there, second after second, breath after breath, grip still tight. The shiver settled. The ache in his gut uncurled. Mike scrubbed the last of the irritation away from his eyes. “Think maybe I’ll take a walk out to the stern. Clear my head.”

“Head for the bow this time. See where we’re going.” Tom’s mouth quirked again and a twinkle touched his gaze. “I expect you in the wardroom at 1800 for dinner. I told the galley to go vegetarian for the night. Think they’re serving up Spanish omelets.”

Breathing definitely felt better. “Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

_**Personal Log—Mission Day 168—10 November** _

 

_2200—Even the best wisdom isn’t infallible. I know that. It just burns my gut to have to watch Tom eat crow in front of the crew. But by God, he does it with style._

_Seems he was a little hasty in his understanding of the progress on the vaccine. And having Dr. Scott dump the hazardous remains of her monkeys in the middle of the night didn’t help. A sentry caught sight of her. It sparked a few rumors, fanned by the ever-so-chatty Dr. Tophet over a chessboard, and then Lt. Green collapsed in the crew lounge. Turned out to be dengue fever rather than the virus, but that was all we needed._

_By the time we’d been in and out of a Circle William, the damage was done. We've got 16 crew, whose enlistments are up, wanting off the ship. I have no doubt more will follow if they go. Everybody's spooked. We're sitting on the brink of a mutiny._

_Tom could have cracked down the moment we found out, stop-lossed them. Tried to salvage something. But he didn’t. He assembled the entire crew on the flight deck, stood in front of those kids and apologized. And then he was dead straight with them. Played the ham transmissions. Showed all of them Dr. Scott’s lab and had her give a basic explanation of what she’s doing. What’s really involved. Even I hadn’t realized just how painstaking a process it can be and how many setbacks there can be before hitting paydirt. Tom promised going forward that the information trail would be entirely forthcoming with all of us. He trusts them with the truth._

_And then he addressed the ones wanting to leave. Never named a name. Just told the group they’d accrued enough back pay to buy one of our RHIBs, with fuel, food, water, and medical supplies enough to get them somewhere. And anyone wanting to leave should be at the fo’c’sle at 0700 tomorrow._

_Sixteen more down. I don’t know how many more we can lose before we can’t keep Nathan James running. Tomorrow will be either a stumbling block or a stepping stone._

 

**_Personal Log—Mission Day 169—11 November_ **

 

_0730— Sixteen sailors stood at the fo’c’sle when we walked out. Sixteen sailors then unanimously requested to reenlist. That oath has never sounded so sweet…_

_“I swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America from all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the uniform code of military justice, so help me God.”_

_Days like this I couldn’t be prouder to serve with this crew. And I'm learning they're even tougher and more mature than I'd given them credit for to date._

_Now we just have to deal with Foster and Green. And Tom’s put the kibosh on Tophet’s little chatter mill._

_I do believe it’s going to be a good day._

  
_***_


End file.
